


La Oficina

by betp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, human!AU, office!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:26:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles works at a mediocre paper company in Beacon Hills, California. Derek's an unemployed high school English teacher who lives with his sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Martina (Tumblr user kittysnotahappybunny)

"You might meet someone," Laura says, laying down on Derek's bed in her slip and stockings. Derek turns from the mirror, where he's putting on a tie. "Ugh," she says. "Don't wear that one. I hate that one. Wear the green one."

Derek drops his hands, exasperated, and the tie comes undone and lays in an unidentifiable pile of limpness on his chest. "Why."

"Your eyes are green, genius. It's either a green tie or a purple suit."

Derek flings the tie at her, and she catches it, flings it back. It catches him in the back of the head on his way back to the closet. "No, I mean why would I meet someone," he asks irritably. Digs through his shoebox of ties.

"That's a good question, because there won't be anyone there but you and me. Oh, wait, literally _all of my coworkers_ will be there. Why don't you have a tie rack?"

"Because you're stupid. I don't want to date your coworkers. I don't want to date anyone." He pauses. "Stop mimicking me, I can see you in the mirror. I wanna wear this one." He pulls out a novelty tie one of his students got him. It's got x-wings on it. Laura looks scandalised when he shows it to her.

"Try and leave the house in that thing, and I'll cut it off in the middle at the party and you'll look like a dumbass _and_ be out an ugly nerd tie."

" _You're_ an ugly nerd tie," Derek says, and throws the tie back into the box with enough force that it falls out of the box entirely. Nettled, Derek leaves it. Grabs the green tie Laura demanded.

"It's been two years," she says. He ignores her; focuses on knotting the tie. "Derek."

He glances at her in the mirror, and she's digging through his nightstand drawer. "Go put on real clothes or I'll take a picture of you like that. Send it to Mom and tell her you're wearing that out."

Laura stares back at him for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then she flops comfortably back onto the bed. "If I wanted to wear this out, that would be my business," she says loftily. Derek walks over to her. Grabs a pillow and pushes it onto her face while she screeches and kicks.

::

"Hale!" yells a man when Derek and Laura make it inside the party and over to the snack table. They both turn, even though it occurs to Derek belatedly that the shout was meant only for Laura. A dark-haired guy with at least thirteen more teeth than the average human being scuttles up to them.

"Hi, Mr. Finstock," Laura says smoothly. "Enjoying the party?"

"No!" Finstock says, folding his arms, chagrined. He's wearing a tie with a crab in a santa hat on it. The words _Sandy Claws_ are accentuated with blinking LED lights. "They got generic pretzels and there's no booze."

"Well, it's a company function," Laura returns, and Finstock scrunches up his face, leans forward, like she suddenly spoke Chinese. "This is my brother, Derek," she says instead of continuing with this conversation.

"Bobby Finstock, general manager of Beacon Hills branch," Finstock says sharply, thrusting his hand forward like he's going to slice through Derek's guts. Derek shakes his hand. It's cold and coarse. "I gotta say, you don't look like a Derek. You look like a Ralph! No, you don't, your face is all wrong for Ralph. Shut up. You're a Felix! Can I call you Felix?"

"Like the cat," says someone else, also at the snack table. It's a tall, brown-haired guy with a red napkin full of bell-shaped cookies and freckles dotted across his fair skin.

"What?" Finstock demands.

"Uh, noth—what? I didn't say anything," the guy deflects.

"Stand up straight, Stilinski!" says Finstock, and then he stalks away.

"Stiles from sales, this is my brother Derek," Laura drawls boredly. "Brother Derek, this is Stiles from sales." Stiles from sales is wearing a tie with death stars all over it. He brushes cookie crumbs from his hand on his slacks and extends it to Derek. It's warm, and Derek shakes it slowly.

"Nice death star tie," he says, barely resisting the urge to scowl at Laura. Only reason he doesn't is because he gets distracted when Stiles grins at him, quick and real.

"Lydia swore up and down they were deformed polka dots," he says, hushed, like if he shows any less restraint he'll yell it. "I think she was probably saying that to punish me for wearing a Star Wars tie, but I don't have a standby array of tastefully Christmas-coloured ties. Like, I'm Jewish."

"I'm not Jewish and I still don't have any Christmas ties," Derek replies. "Christmas ties should be outlawed."

"Christmas ties in theory aren't too bad," Stiles counters. "You gotta get specific with the law. Like, ties which light up or have puns on them…"

"But your boss wouldn't have anything to wear to the party."

Stiles giggles, and Derek is delighted. "He wouldn't have anything to wear to work, honestly," he says, smiling crookedly.

Derek suddenly realises they're still shaking hands, and he jerks his away, flushing. Stiles just grins, amused, shameless. He offers Derek one of his cookies, and Derek takes it gingerly. "I'm Stiles. I work in sales."

"I'm Derek," Derek says. "I'm Laura's brother."

They turn to Laura, only to find that she isn't there. Some peering about the room reveals her new station, talking to some big black guy in a waistcoat. Derek wonders wildly when _that_ happened. He looks back at Stiles, and Stiles meets his eye and blushes suddenly. "I brought secret vodka," he offers, timidly smiling. "It's a secret. Can you keep a secret?"

Derek raises one eyebrow. "Can I have some?"

Stiles rolls his eyes at this. "Can you _have some_ ," he repeats scornfully. "Come the fuck on, let's get wasted."

::

"I don't normally do this," Derek says thinly, roughly and clumsily untucking Stiles' shirt so he can slide his hands onto the skin beneath it. It's starkly hot, smooth—

"And I do?" Stiles asks, bites down on Derek's neck, and _oh_ —grabs his behind, and Derek's never liked that until right this second. "I haven't actually kissed someone in like nine months, I—holy _god_ , your  _ass_ is—"

"It's been two years for me," Derek says, turns them so he's pinning Stiles against the wall next to the elevator. Stiles' foot bumps an empty vodka bottle and it clatters onto its side. "I win." He fits his thigh between Stiles', and Stiles _moans_. Hauls him closer by the loosened tie and kisses him, wet and sloppy.

"I don't _get_ it. You're so—" Stiles says between kisses. Slides his hands up Derek's front to cup his jaw. "You're so…" He laughs breathlessly. " _Awesome_."

Someone has called Derek awesome exactly zero times. He must look shocked, because Stiles' eyes are warm, and he kisses him again, light—but lingering.

"Dude, what—" Stiles kisses him again. "What is this."

"This?" Derek grinds his thigh against Stiles' hard-on, and Stiles gasps, tosses an arm around Derek's neck.

"No, for fuck's— _this_ , Derek, this _thing_ we're—"

"I think it's pretty obvious what we're doing—"

"Do you want to date me." Derek pulls back, blinks at him. "Or do you want this to be a drunken Christmas party makeout and nothing else. Y'gotta be up front with me or I, or I get _expectations_." He looks melancholy, determined. Like he's speaking from experience.

There's also the fact that no one's ever actually wanted to date Derek. Literally no one. They usually just want sex. Or to get him fired—that was just the once, because you can only get fired from teaching once. After that, you just aren't a teacher anymore. "You want to date me?" he clarifies flatly.

Stiles looks at him funny, eyes flickering and bright. "Do I _want to date you_ ," he repeats in the same voice with which he repeated _Can you have some_. "Have you _met_ you? Did you not _hear_ me earlier? You're _awesome_. If a little bit creepy. Of _course_ I want to date you. The question _is_ , do _you_ want to date _me_?"

Derek nods dumbly.

Stiles actually looks surprised. "Really?"

"Uh. Derek clears his throat. "Yeah. I—yes." He scowls at Stiles. "Do you have a pen."

Stiles does have a pen. And a stupidly attractive forearm for Derek to write his number on.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles kicks off on the carpet so that he rolls across the annex sluggishly. Scott turns to face him expectantly, but Stiles waits for the minimal momentum to carry him all the way until the back of his chair bumps against Scott's desk before he speaks. "So Derek," Stiles says to Scott, and Scott slumps like a cave entrance collapsing. " _What_!" Stiles says belligerently.

"What about Derek," Scott prompts wearily, but Stiles shoves his shoulder so his chair turns impotently.

"What."

Scott takes in a deep breath, holds out his hands like he's telling Stiles to brace himself. He's about to deliver some bad news. "I hate Derek," says Scott. This isn't new. Stiles knew this already. Not that Scott told him so, but they've only known each other since the eighth _grade_ ; Stiles likes to think he's reasonably skillful at guessing Scott's opinions. He takes a moment to squint pokerfacishly at Scott while he internally debates whether to reveal his knowledge or let Scott have this confession. "I think he's a dick," Scott goes on. "And a douche. He's a dickdouche, if you will."

"And I won't," Stiles says, pointing at Scott with his black Bic pen.

"I hate his hair," continues Scott, counting off on his fingers, "and his bunny teeth." Stiles grins, because Derek's bunny teeth are the cutest teeth ever to tooth. "I hate his leather jacket, and I hate his car, and I hate the way he scowls at you like a dickdouche."

"I think we've hammered home the point that Derek is a dickdouche," Stiles tells Scott, patting his shoulder. 

"And he's Laura-from-customer-relations's brother, which is _super weird_." 

"It's not as weird as it sounds. I never even see her except for at lunch." Scott concedes this with a nod. It's his turn on Words With Friends. "You could add 'lyc' to the front of 'anthrope,' bro," he says.

"I was gonna put _mis_."

" _Lyc_ has a Y. It'd get you more points." Scott frowns at his phone. "And now that you've made your feelings clear, I'm gonna talk about him anyway. We went on our fourth date last night."

"He _scowls_ at you," Scott tells him.

"He can't handle how much he likes me," returns Stiles, and it's true. It _sounds_ ridiculous, and it _is_ , but it's a hundred percent true. "He doesn't like caring about people. And _yet_ , we got kicked out of Mama Lucia's last night because we didn't notice when it became closing time."

Scott goggles at him. "Dude," he says. "Mama Lucia's is open 'til 2! Your date was at seven!"

"Yes, it was," Stiles says smugly.

"What were you even _doing_ for…" Scott's eyes focus over Stiles' head, and he mouths numbers. Stiles waits. "Si—"

"Seven."

"Seven hours! What, was he rolling a meatball across the plate to you with his nose?"

Stiles stares for a moment, and then cracks a grin. "Good one," he says, and bumps Scott's fist. "Solid joke. I mean, it doesn't have anything to do with spending an obscene amount of time in a restaurant, and in this scenario I'm Lady, but it's still—"

"Seven hours in Mama Lucia's with Derek Hale," Scott emphasises, grin dropping off his face. And okay. _Sure_. It's a _long time_. But it was awesome. Stiles didn't even check his phone. Not once in seven hours. That's— _that's_ saying something, okay. Stiles has ADHD. He needs to check each of his social media sites pretty damn often. He pulls out his phone, idly checks Twitter.

"Dude, I know," he says meanwhile, sitting up a little in his chair. "We were talking about Star Wars. And my ancient, withered crush on Lydia. And his crazy fucking ex. And my dad. And his sisters. And _you_ , we talked about _you_! He knows you hate him; I think it secretly makes him sad. And I told him that story I love to tell but no one loves to hear, the one about the—"

"Yeah, about the chem test and Jackson Whittemore's alleged crush on you."

"Dude, I dunno, he was hitting on me."

"He _wasn't_ hitting on—why would Jackson _Whittemore_ hit on you? And what— _why_ would you tell that story on a _date_ , bro? Why would you tell that story _period_?"

"More like question mark," Stiles says, "because I don't know why I like to tell it so much. Probably because literally no one wants to hear it. Except for Derek, he listened."

Scott stares at him.

"Also because it's grammatically a question, so it would end in a," says Stiles, but Scott cuts him off.

"He _listened_ to the _Jackson story_?"

"He listened to the Jackson story," Stiles confirms, finally letting his stupid, besotted grin spread across his face undammed. "I realise we've only been on four dates, but I think I'm in love."

Scott nods, dubious and unimpressed. "Yeah, that's what you said about Janessa," he says, and he realises he regrets saying it as he's saying it. Stiles can see it on his face. "I mean," he says, but Stiles can't even let the reminder of the second biggest mistake he's ever made in his life dampen this feeling. He takes a minute to convince himself of this.

"This is different," Stiles tells Scott. "This is better." It's so true, too, because Stiles' time with Janessa was primarily him convincing her he was worth the trouble of being with him. His time with Derek is overwhelmingly him and Derek enjoying each other. Desperate for Scott to understand, Stiles adds, "This is _Derek_."

Scott looks relieved Stiles isn't more upset than he is, but he still says, "That name carries a different emotional response for you. It doesn't make me feel any better."

"Well, it should, because Derek is the best," decides Stiles. "He's funny, and his eyes are like supernovas." Scott grimaces, looks like he's about to respond, but Finstock bursts into the annex yelling at them to get back to work, so Scott gives Stiles a push back to his desk and they return with gusto to selling paper.

About ten minutes later, an IM pings open on Stiles' screen. It's from Scott.

**_dereks still a dickdouche_ **


	3. Chapter 3

"I didn't even know they _made_ Space Jam ties," Derek remarks, and Stiles beams, his back straightens a little. Derek tries in vain to suppress a grin. "Are you actually _preening_ about that—?"

"Shut up. I'm not a peacock, Derek. I don't _preen_ ," Stiles tells him, tapping a finger on Derek's chest with each point he makes. "And of _course_ they make Space Jam ties, because nothing is worth buying if it doesn't have Space Jam shit on it. I have a Space Jam mousepad, too."

"You do not." Stiles cracks a grin, snatches his mousepad off the desk, thrusts it at Derek. His mouse goes clattering across the desk, and there are spots of pink on Stiles' cheeks that look good enough to taste. It takes Derek a moment to actually look at the mousepad being presented to him. "It's—" He clears his throat. Confirms, "It's a Space Jam mousepad."

"It is _exactly that_. I'm the best," Stiles tells him, tossing the thing blindly back onto his desk. It knocks over a pencil cup. "How many points do I get?"

"Five—no, six," concedes Derek.

"Come on, at least eight."

"Space Jam isn't _even_ worth seven points. I was being generous with si—"

Stiles ducks in close, kisses Derek before he can react, and Derek is completely caught off guard. Stiles' fingertips are warm on his jaw like he's just been holding coffee, and his hips are slim under Derek's hands—not for the first time, Derek thinks about getting Stiles into his bed, stripping him methodically, _sober_. The kiss ends as suddenly as it began. "How many points now?" he asks, grinning like an idiot.

"Six and a half," Derek says, low, looking at Stiles' reddened lips.

"You're a tough bastard," Stiles decides, folding his arms like they're conducting a business deal. His eyes skim along Derek's height, narrowed speculatively. "Maybe I should up my game. Bet I could come up with a more compelling argument…"

Derek fights the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. Behind him, Stiles' friend Scott clears his throat theatrically.

"Allison Argent, tenth grade," Stiles hisses at him.

"I was _sixteen_ ," Scott returns.

Suddenly, Stiles steps back, cheeks burning redder, and raises his eyebrows. He's looking over Derek's shoulder, and Derek puzzles over this for a second—then he realises what's happening just as Stiles says, "Um. Hi, Laura."

Shit. Derek turns, peers at Laura sheepishly. There's a pause while she takes in Stiles, the tie, the sweater, the rumpled shirt collar. She sucks her teeth and then puts on a bright smile. "Was wondering when you were gonna show up with my forms, Der," she says tightly.

Derek remembers with sudden clarity the manila folder in his hands. He glances apologetically at Stiles and scurries after her when she leaves. 

::

"What the crap is _wrong_ with you," she hisses once she's dragged him into an empty conference room.

" _What_?" he says defensively. Tosses her precious reports onto the table. She snatches them up.

"So I guess you just—" She tosses a hand up. " _Accidentally_ walked past my desk, through the break room, and into the annex to the sales department."

Derek makes a face like she's embarrassing herself. "You're being kind of a baby," he says, and she scowls heatedly at him.

"You blew off an important job I gave you so you could talk to _Stilinski_ ," she snaps. "Of _course_ I'm being a baby!"

"One: I didn't blow it off. I postponed it for less than ten minutes. You're still being a baby. Two: Why are you—you said you hated the receptionist, your boss, and—" he does air quotes "—'literally everyone in accounting.'" She rolls her eyes. "You never _mentioned_ Stiles." Which is a fuckin' shame, because Derek feels deprived of the year and a half he could have spent getting to know Stiles when Laura started working here.

"I don't hate Stiles," she says, making a _calm down_ gesture. "He's just generally annoying and I needed these reports and why are you _talking_ to him!"

Derek stares at her. Those were too many words. He puts his hands in his pockets. "We're, uh." This is awkward. "We're kind of—ah, we're going out?" She narrows her eyes. "Together?"

"As friends."

That—no, that's not entirely accurate. "No," he says. Tries his damnedest not to say something stupid. Laura has a way of making him confess things he normally wouldn't, and he is decidedly not going to. "I'm at least half in love with him." Shit.

She sighs, drops her face into her hand. "And you have terrible taste in men. This is great." He gives her a dubious look. Thinks about her ex, Alex. "Don't mention Alex," she says. "How long has this been going on?"

Derek hesitates. "Since the Christmas party."

She boggles. "Since—! Derek, that was a _month_ ago! What the _fuck_! I knew you were probably seeing someone, but jesus, I'd hoped it was— _I_ dunno, Lydia _Martin_ , or—"

"You introduced me to Stiles," Derek tells her. "I didn't talk to anyone but him and his friend Scott that night." He pauses, frowns a little. "And your boss."

"See, I'd _rather_ you date _Finstock_ ," she says emphatically.

Derek ignores her. "Scott hates me," he muses.

"And I hate Stiles," she says, hands spread, like she's just found the perfect solution to world hunger. Derek lets his head roll on his shoulders, exasperated. "I mean," she says uncomfortably. "I know I _just said_ —fine. _Fine_. What's, what's he like."

Derek frowns. Folds his arms. "He's nice." Laura raises her eyebrows expectantly, and Derek flusters. Stiles, what's Stiles like? Stiles makes Derek laugh and Derek finds him intensely attractive and he _knows_ things and thinks _Derek_ is funny and— "He's _nice_."

"Well, with _that_ glowing endorsement, I might just _steal_ him from you," she deadpans.

Rolling his eyes, Derek turns from her. "Go submit your reports, Laura."

She darts forward, blocks Derek's passage to the door. " _You_ submit _your_ reports. Your reports _to_ me, _about_ your boyfriend!"

And holy shit. Derek rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. "Why do you _care_?"

"Because you're dumb," she returns. "Is he a good kisser?  Danny from sales says he's a good kisser." She pauses. "Of course, he did say Stiles' only merit was his mouth."

Derek doesn't need to be thinking about the merits of Stiles' mouth. Or Danny from sales enjoying them. He grimaces. "Good _bye_ , Laura," he says flatly, pushing past her.

"Fine," she stage-whispers after him. "You're telling me later!" He's passing the front desk when she calls, "Wait, do we need milk? Get milk!"

" _Bless_ you for coming to Cyclonic Paper today," Jackson tells him expressionlessly as he leaves.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It's not a big deal.

It's not like it's the first time Derek's experienced this day. He's twenty-six, going on twenty-seven. That's how many times he's lived through this day. In fact, it's not even the first time he's weathered it with a significant other, so why is Derek this nervous? He shouldn't be. In fact, why refer to it with its formal name? Like the American independence day. We call it the fourth of July. July fourth. Why not do that here?

It's the same thing. February fourteenth. The fourteenth of February.

It's not a big deal.

::

It's kind of a big deal.

They've been going out for two months exactly on the thirteenth, and that's sort of a daunting amount of time. It's long enough that Derek should be expected to know what Stiles would like, but not quite long enough that, like, soulful lovemaking would be an acceptable substitute. Not that there's been any lovemaking yet, soulful or otherwise. Which is ironic considering how they met.

"So?" Laura asks, making the same face she made when she found out the plot twist in the fourth Indiana Jones. "It's Valentine's Day, Der. It's the one day a year you're supposed to just eat chocolate and get laid, it's fine."

Derek scowls. "We aren't doing that yet." She boggles.

Then she says, "I don't know if I'm disappointed in your game or glad you haven't nailed Stilinski."

The scowl intensifies. "I think that's at least six bucks in the dick jar for you."

"I'm _not_ being a dick, _you're_ being a _priss_ ," returns Laura, pointing at Derek with her spoon. A Lucky Charm drops unceremoniously onto the table. Derek lifts the newspaper back up so he doesn't have to look at her, but she mashes it back down onto the table, scrunching it. "Forget Ask Amy," she says. "We're trying to get you laid."

"We are," he repeats flatly.

"It's Valentine's Day. The hell do you think it's even for?"

"It's for you to stop talking," he says, snottily fixing the folds in his newspaper. "Forever."

::

So Valen--February fourteenth is for putting out. Message received. This doesn't help Derek figure out what to get for Stiles.

"Well, you'd know better than we would," says Laura's boyfriend Boyd, which is how Derek becomes aware he was complaining out loud. This is embarrassing. Boyd doesn't seem to care. "What do you know about him?"

Derek stares blankly at Boyd. What does Derek know about Stiles?

For their third date, Stiles insisted that they go to his apartment and watch _A New Hope_ , and Stiles sat up ramrod straight when Leia came onscreen, and again when Han appeared. He ordered a black coffee and a raspberry truffle cake pop on their second, the first included Stiles making a terrible pun about Vulcans and Derek laughing so abruptly he choked on his whatever-he-was-eating, the fourth lasted seven hours before one of them thought to check the time, and every date ends with a kiss that makes Derek forget his own name. His father is the sheriff, his mother died when he was fifteen, and if Scott were attracted to men, he would be dating Stiles. Stiles gets drunk when he gets very sad, very angry, or very nervous. He likes chocolate and has always wanted a cat, but his father always said they were surly. "I mean, you're pretty surly," Stiles told Derek on their fifth date, which seemed to primarily be them kissing on a bus stop bench. "So I guess that means I like surliness." Stiles has elegant features, a fondness for movies that came out before he was born, and a t-shirt that proclaims him to be a 'stud muffin.'

"Nothing," Derek says, panicked. "Nothing."

Boyd rolls his eyes. "Doesn't bode well for the two of you, does it," he says, and claps a reassuring hand on Derek's shoulder.

::

Laura ends up forgetting her phone on Va--the fourteenth, and on the way to the office to bring it to her, Derek thinks, _Fuck it_ , and buys a bag of M&Ms. Stiles is oblivious when Derek gets to his and Scott's cubicle; he's resting his cheek on his fist and playing Solitaire in a pink cardigan. "Didn' I, didn' I, didn' I see ya cryin'," he's mumbling to himself, and Derek sighs.

"Please stop," he deadpans, and Stiles flails like an electrocuted rag doll. "Gonna have that stuck in my head for a week."

Stiles swivels to face him, beaming, and launches himself at him; Derek's got his arms full of Stiles before he can react. "It's a great song," Stiles says, lingering in the hug for a second. Then he pulls back. "Hi. Did Laura forget a thing?"

"Yes," Derek says. "I brought you candy."

Stiles' delight could be likened to a flash grenade. Derek is blinking, stunned by the sheer luminosity of his smile, when Stiles drags him by the arm, plants him into the spinny chair at Stiles' desk. "Sit," he's saying decisively. "Eat these with me." He tears the bag open with his teeth and his fingers, tendons flexing in his hands. "I'll eat the warm colors, you can eat the cool colors."

"What about the brown ones?" Derek asks, watching Stiles spill all the M&Ms onto his desk and start sliding them into piles with one finger.

"We'll split 'em."

"And if there's an odd number?"

"We'll give the remainder to Scott."

"A whole M&M," Scott says to his computer monitor. "Gee whiz."

::

Finstock appears after about twenty minutes or so. "Stilinski!" he barks. "Why is Laura's brother in here?"

"He came to bring you all these brown M&Ms," Stiles says immediately. Offers Finstock the dish that used to contain paper clips and now contains candy. " _Wow_. Isn't he _sweet_."

"Well, yes," Finstock says, taking the dish and walking away like this was the task he came here for. "I'll eat these. Be back to work by the time I'm done."

As soon as he's out of the annex, Stiles addresses Derek again. "Sorry. You have to distract him or he hurts himself. Let's get dinner tonight. My treat." 

Derek is halfway home before he remembers he was nervous. Then he gets nervous again. 

:: 

They end up on Derek's bed around eleven, fueled by In'n'Out, chocolate, and red wine, and Stiles' touch is making Derek dizzy. Derek's fighting to keep his hands from shaking, determined to make this good. He can't fuck this up, because being with Stiles is thick and cloying and sweet and he can't lose this. They've been going out for two months exactly yesterday, and that's sort of a daunting amount of time. It's long enough that Derek's well and truly addicted to him, but not quite long enough that it makes sense that he feels this way.

Suddenly, Stiles pulls back and looks at him, concern in the creases on his forehead. "You okay?"

Derek goes white. "I--yes. Fine." If he fucks up tonight...

"You know we don't have to have sex tonight, don't you?" Stiles asks, ghosting his fingertips over Derek's wrist, and Derek goes still.

"What."

Stiles squirms, now. Licks his lips. "I mean, if that's what... I'm just saying, it's not a requirement. If you don't want to." He glances back at Derek, and Derek stares up at him. 

"I," he says, and he isn't really sure what to do with Stiles watching him like that, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, untucked haphazardly on one side, belt unbuckled. "My last relationship," Derek abruptly hears himself saying, "went really fast. And it ended--" He cuts himself off, unsure. 

"Badly?" offers Stiles, making a face like he knows it's an understatement. 

Derek grimaces, nods tightly. 

Stiles nods as well, sympathetic, and then leans down and brushes his lips on Derek's forehead. "I can wait," he says simply. Like it's nothing. 

No, like it's something, but something Derek's worth accomplishing for. Derek feels his face heat up, his muscles relax, freed of expectations.

"We don't have to do anything until you're ready," Stiles says decisively, and leans away from Derek, but Derek grabs him by the shirt collar, and he flails, flops onto Derek's chest gracelessly.

"Sorry," Derek says. "But I, there is something I'd like..." He watches Stiles' lashes flutter when he unzips his pants. "I want, I want to touch you," he says, frowning with determination.

" _Oh_ ," Stiles breathes when Derek's hand wraps around him. "Oh, god. Can I, are you? I?"

"Words, Stiles," Derek says softly.

Stiles scowls at him. "Can I touch you, too."

This is happening. Derek nods. _Stiles_ is happening, and _intoxicating_. More so than the wine they'd drunk straight from the bottle, even. Stiles falls onto his side, facing Derek, and Derek finds he can't watch Stiles' fingers wrapping around his dick if he wants to last even a minimal length of time. They move their hands lazily, unhurried, kissing, and Derek wonders why he was worried. Stiles has never made being with him more difficult than it needed to be. Who cares if Laura thinks their dates are boring or Stiles is a nerd? Certainly not Derek; Derek likes their dates and he likes Stiles. He likes Stiles so much he's _woozy_ with it--or maybe that's just the wine.

Could be both, he thinks, as Stiles slowly hooks one of his legs over Derek's. "Mmm, happy Valentine's Day," Stiles sighs after he comes. It's probably both.

::

Derek sends Stiles out in borrowed clothes (they fit passably) to catch a ride to work with Laura the next day, his hair still somewhat limp from the shower. Laura takes one look at them and leers. Looks ready to say something, but then she spots Stiles' tie. "Ugh," she says. "Of _course_ you picked that one. Okay, let's go. I'll buy coffee on the way, I'm hung over as shit."

Stiles grins hopefully at Derek on his way out the door, and Derek admires the sight of him, pink-cheeked and wearing Derek's 'ugly nerd tie.' Stiles darts forward, pecks Derek on the cheek, and the backs out the door looking like a kid who got away with a cookie before dinner. "Call me," he says cheekily, and shuts the door behind him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Are you guys boning?" Lydia asks briskly, like she's only got so much time to waste prying into Stiles' sex life with a gigantic, metaphorical crowbar. Stiles watches her lazily.

"You mean me and Scott?" he asks, and her entire body rolls its eyes. She places her ample rear on the edge of Stiles' desk, leans forward, and Stiles watches only her eyes.

" _Are you guys boning_ ," she repeats slowly, making it clear that if she has to say it again, Stiles will be seeing through her fancy false nails.

"Are we having _sex_ , yes," Stiles says, and so his lips twitch up helplessly on one side remembering Derek's hands up under his shirt, searing and perfect, sue him. Derek is a walking wet dream with a good seventy percent of Stiles' brain inside his skull. Stiles can't stop thinking about him. "Since Valentine's Day."

"Cyclonic Paper, this is Scott," Scott says into his phone.

"Spill," Lydia says primly. Takes a sip from her Starbucks cup.

It's Stiles' turn to roll his eyes. "You want me to give you the specific details of what Derek and I have done sexually," he says. "At work." And it ordinarily would be a question, but this is Lydia Martin, and there's no point in asking. Stiles already knows the answer. And she knows he knows the answer. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. "Don't you have quality assurance to do?" Stiles whines. She narrows her eyes, crosses one leg over the other.  "We are at _work_."

"Like you've ever cared about that before. You told me what you and that other guy did—what was his name…"

"Derek is—"

"Kit— _Kurt_! Kurt?"

" _Derek is different_ ," Stiles insists passionately. "He's like—he's just—he makes me so—I—"

"Spare me," Lydia says, holding up a hand like Diana Ross. "The day I ask for a description of the butterflies Derek puts in your tummy, Stiles, call the police because I've been lobotomised against my will. I want the details. The physical, Stiles." She nods once, eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled. "Capiche?"

"We offer a discount of up to thirty percent for schools in the area," Scott tells his phone.

"Ka-peach," Stiles returns. She leans back, squinting, arms folded, lips pursed. "I, uh. What do you want to know."

"Who's fucking whom, obviously," Erica snaps, and Stiles startles. Looks at her. She's leaning casually against the partition between Scott's desk and Greenberg's. Her skirt is at least three inches shorter than the dress code permits. Lydia's eyes trace the hem judgmentally, and then she smirks, approving.

"When did you—?" Stiles begins. "You know what? Never mind. You and Lydia are hivemind terror queens. No one's fucking anybody. We did, ah… Other. Stuff."

"Other stuff?" Lydia repeats like it's a slur.

Erica says, "You guys both have dicks and you've been together for like four months," scandalised, like this is a personal affront. "What do you even _do_ together?"

"Five," Stiles says. "Five months on Tuesday, actually." He smiles. Lydia and Erica don't smile back. "Last weekend, we went to a baseball game and then afterwards I blew him in the back seat of his Camaro."

"Thank you for doing business with Cyclonic Paper," Scott says, and then hangs up his phone. He swivels in his chair to face Stiles and Lydia. "I've seen that douche's car, bro, I don't know how you fit back there."

"It was a squeeze," Stiles agrees. He grins wickedly at the floor. "It was worth it. "

"Describe his penis," Lydia says professionally. Stiles opens his mouth and looks at her placidly.

"You guys'd better be fucking by your six-month, I'm not even kidding, Stilinski," Erica says, folding her arms under her breasts. Stiles rolls his eyes, and she looks unreasonably angry. "There were _two_ guys at that fucking Christmas party I wanted to screw, _only two_ , and they ended up dating _each other_. If I can't live vicariously through you, I experience a net loss of _two dudes_. You and that other guy were doing it from the get-go! What was his name, uh… Kal. Ka—no, Kurt!"

"Is it big?" asks Lydia.

"You could do it tonight," says Erica. "I'll buy you lube."

"Is he circumcised?"

Stiles turns and looks at Scott. Scott stares back emptily. Someone's desk phone starts to ring. Erica and Lydia keep talking.

"Shoot him a text. He'll understand."

"Did you choke on it?"

"Choke your ass on it."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sexual harassment is not okay!   
> It doesn't really bother Stiles when Erica and Lydia do it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember this

Erica's birthday falls serendipitously on a Friday, which she's excited about because it means drinks after work. Maybe she'll get to drunkenly kiss Scott or Malia at the end of the night.

Stiles is in a horrific mood, though, which does not bode well for the festivities.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks, as they carpool to Green Charlie's.

"Everything," he jokes, voice like a fender bender. She waits skeptically. "Derek and I got into a fight last night," he eventually tells her. "It's not a huge deal." He tries to chew a hangnail off his thumb. "It happens, right?"

Erica doesn't know how to do feelings-talks with anyone but Boyd or her old coworkers from the bank, so after a tense moment, she says, "Well, we're about to get drunk."

"True that," says Stiles. "Step on it."

::

"I don' like it when you guys, when you guys talk to me about _Kurt_ ," Stiles tells Erica, swaying mildly on the bar stool, and it takes her a moment to figure out what the hell he's talking about. It's par for the course tonight; he's so wasted that his eyes blink at slightly different times.

She says, "Thought it was an amicable split."

" _Nooo_ ," he replies, long and drawn out. "No, I w—he still has my _cat_. He took _Spot_ , and he—" He starts to tip over backwards, and Erica and Scott each grab a shoulder, steady him. "He got the 'partment."

"He was on my couch for like a month," Scott tells Erica, rubbing idly between Stiles' shoulder blades. Stiles drops his head forward, heaves his weight onto his elbows on the counter.

"A _month_ ," Stiles repeats, nodding morosely. "It, i'was, couch."

"You never said anything," Erica says. Stiles sighs, lifts his glass up like he's surprised to find it empty. She puts a hand on his wrist. "No, you _never said anything_."

"I don't wanna," Stiles tells her. "I mean, I didn't wanna make a _big deal_ , out of. I miss my _cat_." He starts to fall again.

" _O_ kay," Scott decides. "I think it's about time to call it quits with the drinks, buddy."

"Problaby," Stiles agrees. "Probbly. _Prom_ …" He addresses Erica. "Kurt, and Derek. Are _not_ the same."

"I know," she says.

"I _love_ Derek," Stiles goes on jubilantly. "I love him, I _love_ —" He stands, and Scott eases him back down. " _Derek_ doesn't think I'm used up," he continues conversationally. Scott pats his shoulder and starts to make a phone call. "He's, he got _so mad_ when I told him what, what Kurt said. He's said Kurt's an _asshole_ , and I shouldn' listen to him. Kurt _is_ an asshole, because he said I was used _up_. And I thought no one would want me."

He goes quiet for a moment. Erica's nose stings. She reaches for Stiles, hesitates, and then plows on. Squeezes his wrist.

He puts a hand over hers. Tells her, "I think Derek wants me."

"Derek wants you," she confirms.

He grins crookedly at her. "I loved my cat a _lot._ Spot was soft, and black. He was like _Boyd_." He bursts into laughter. Falls forward onto the counter. The bartender glumly removes his glass.

" _Some_ body needs to sleep this off," Boyd says, amused, from the other side of Scott, who puts his phone in his pocket, shakes his head.

"Derek's on his way."

" _Derek_ ," Stiles crows. "I _know_ that guy. Bartender! I wan' another drink."

"Nope," says Scott.

"No, he does not," adds Boyd.

Stiles squints at Erica. "You gonna corrobrolate their lies?" She laughs at him. "Tha's it," he says with an impotent shrug, like this is out of his hands. "I'm gonna go lie down," he points at the floor, "and when I get back, I want there to be another drink here."

Erica and Scott then convince him not to lie on the floor.

He lasted longer than Jackson did; Danny longsufferingly offered to drive him home an hour and a half ago. It's only nine. Drinks after work on a Friday should last past midnight. "You are _such_ a lightweight, Stilinski," she says affectionately, when the guy's boyfriend shows up to hoist him off the stool.

"I'm drunk," he agrees matter-of-factly. "My jungement is impaired." He addresses Derek, clings to him with his arms. "I might go home with jus' _any_ guy."

"You're not, though," Derek replies calmly. "You're going home with me."

"F'I took you home, it'd be a home run," Stiles croons in response, and stumbles. Then he perks up, looks at Erica like he forgot she was there. "Happy birthday!" he says. "Happy birthday, Erica."

"Thanks, Stiles." She toasts the both of them. "You gonna wish me a happy birthday, Hale?"

He smirks at her, hefting Stiles closer by the waist. "Happy birthday, Reyes," he deadpans, and then leads Stiles away.

::

"I was telling them about you," Stiles announces as they make it outside. "You, _want_ me."

"I _want_ you to walk straight."

Stiles marvels, "He said _no_ one would want me, but _you_ do. Derek."

Derek heaves Stiles upright, leans him against the side of the car. "Why are you drunk?"

"It's Erica's birthday." Stiles starts to sway to one side, and Derek rights him again.

"Stiles, you are _completely wasted_."

"You're mad at me."

"I'm irritated because you're drunk off your ass at nine at night, and you won't tell me why."

"That _is_ why, you're—you're mad at me, and I don't, I don't want you to leave me."

Derek stares, put his hands on his hips. "Is this about yesterday?"

"It was. Now it's s'about now. N'you're mad at me. An' I'm an air freshener."

Derek sighs. Moves in close and puts his forehead to Stiles'. "Stiles, you can't keep getting drunk whenever you're upset. You have to talk to me."

"I'm drunk," Stiles says tearfully. "I love you, _so much_."

Derek goes quiet.

"I wanna _be_ with you. Scott says, he says I only like long term, things. He says my hookups, they were to punish myself. After _Kurt_. Scott says I deserve you. He says—"

"Lemme guess. He says _I_ don't deserve _you_ ," Derek offers drily.

"No. He says we're good together."

Derek says nothing.

Stiles rests his head on Derek's shoulder. "Mmm. M'sorry, I. Derek."

"I love you, too," says Derek hesitantly.

" _Ohhh_ , Derek," Stiles says, curling around Derek under the street lamp. " _You're_ my boyfriend, maybe. Dating me! There's, we held hands. I _love_ you! You're my boyfriend."

"One more time."

"My!" Stiles turns to a couple passing them on the sidewalk. "My boyfriend!"

Derek tugs him back. "Okay. Thanks."

" _My boyfriend_!" He bellows, as Derek forces him into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha whatever


	7. Chapter 7

Laura stops Derek on his way to the front door by calling out, "Hey! Dweeb!" He thinks about not responding, but he's in sort of a good mood, so he slows to a stop just shy of the doormat. Turns and lays a dubious look on her. She's brushing her hair. "C'n you pick up more hot pockets?" she asks around the bobby pins in her mouth.

"Nope," he says. She makes a face like he just said something both outlandish and repulsive. "I've got a date." The face intensifies.

"With _who_?"

He tries not to roll his eyes; one of them might do it anyway.

Her entire body sags violently. "I had a dream you guys broke up. I forgot it wasn't real."

" _Laura_ …"

"Do you _enjoy_ hurting me?"

" _You_ introduced us," Derek says, "and I'm still waiting for the memo you apparently sent out on why I can't date anybody from the sales department."

"Cancel," Laura says. Her hair's all piled up on top of her head now like a bird's nest. "Before it's too late."

"It's too late," Derek drily tells her. "This'll be, like, our twentieth date." She crosses her arms. Derek looks at her for a second, and then mimics her peevishly.

"You've been on twenty dates with Stiles from sales and you're still alive?"

"No," Derek says slowly. "I've been on _nineteen_ dates. I keep _trying_ to go on the twentieth, but you're being a douche—"

" _You're_ a douche!" Laura yells.

From behind Derek, "Ooh, I'm just in time for us to talk about Derek being a douche." Derek turns, exasperated. It's Cora, uncharacteristically bright-eyed. "I get to go next. You're a douche!"

"What're _you_ doing h—you know what?" Derek tosses his hands up. "I don't care. I'm leaving. Laura—" He points at Laura, who's cramming a huge handful of popcorn into her mouth. "It's time to get used to this. Accept it."

"Mom left _me_ in charge," Laura replies shittily. Technically, she's right. Derek doesn't address this. He storms past Cora down the cement steps instead.

"You're a douche!" she calls monotonously after him.

::

 **Did I leave my dvd a there** reads Stiles' text. Derek looks at the autocorrect typo for a long moment. Then he moves on to the **there**. What _is_ **there**? Clearly he means Derek and Laura's apartment ("Derek, did you use my avocado face mask? Don't look at me like that, I know how much was in the tub when I used it last. And your pores are looking _suspiciously amazing_."), but Stiles spends about half his nights here.

Derek's been keeping silent and noncommittal track of this progress for a while. If the trend continues, then in roughly two weeks and two days Stiles will officially be spending more time at Derek's than in his townhouse. _Then_ what?

What will his townhouse be? Will it still be "home"? Will Derek's roommate still be his sister, or will he have two: his sister and his boyfriend? Boyfriend.

Derek hates that word. It sounds condescending, somehow. It sounds like something your uncle says to mock you. **Have oceans 11 + 13** , Derek texts back. He pretends not to have found 12, because he wants to watch it again.

 **So you have oceans 24! HA** , Stiles responds about ten minutes into it. Derek curls up on the couch, burritos himself in an afghan. There's something hard under his shoulder; he yanks it out. It's one of Laura's socks. He flings it across the room.

He and Stiles been seeing each other for a long time. How long do you have to be dating someone, how many mornings do you have to wake up cold and irreverently pissed off without them, before you can sign a lease together and mingle all your bathroom products? **You can keep 12, mr. Wang ;)** Stiles follows up a few minutes later. Derek's breath catches in his chest.

::

It's an average day, mostly overcast, warm and still, the DVR playing old Law & Order episodes, when Stiles and Derek hit the eight-month mark, and Derek promptly ruins everything.

"Eight months is a long time to be dating someone," he muses aloud before he can stop himself, and Stiles jerks his head up like a marionette. Stares at him like Derek just ran down his puppy.

"I—" He swallows his sandwich. "Yeah?"

"Sorry," Derek says. "I didn't mean to say that out loud."

Stiles is staring, and it's making Derek uncomfortable. It was weird, wasn't it. Should Derek have stopped keeping track of how long it's been? It was just an observation. But it was a creepy observation. Everything Derek does is creepy. He opens his mouth to apologize, and then thinks better of it, shuts his mouth.

"I thought," Stiles says, and then he gulps. "I thought we were okay. I thought—Oh, shit."

Derek watches, frozen and nonplussed, while Stiles brings his palms to his temples and struggles to breathe. "Stiles," he says urgently, "I—"

"No, not now," says Stiles frantically, "Not now. I have to go. I have to go away now."

He hurries from Derek's apartment without another word, and Derek stares passively at a fly, dead on the window sill.

::

"So take me through it again," Scott says, brow furrowed.

"We're sitting," Stiles obliges, "and we're watching my show, and he smells really good, and he made me a sandwich?" He gulps, and Scott hands him his Snapple. "Thanks. And then suddenly, suddenly he's all, 'Wow, we've been dating for a long time,' or something. Right?"

"Okay," prompts Scott.

"Yeah. And then he goes, and then he goes, 'Oops, I meant to—' No." That's not right. Stiles inhales, exhales. "He goes, 'I didn't mean to say that out _loud_.'"

Scott says, "Okay," again. Blankly, in a way where he's waiting for the punchline. He's waiting for Stiles to get the part where it finally makes sense that he's having a panic attack. This pisses Stiles off.

"O _kay_ ," he snaps.

"Sorry," Scott says sympathetically, "I'm just not following, I guess. He said he didn't mean to say it out loud?"

"Yes," yells Stiles. "He meant to keep it locked inside! And—" He stops.

"Locked in _side_ ," Scott says. He's not incredulous so much as amazed that Stiles can be this neurotic this late in the game.

"I see my errors now," Stiles mutters. Then he buries his face in his hands and doesn't come out for a minute. Scott waits patiently, fidgets with his bowl of mostly melted ice cream. Finally, Stiles emerges. "Okay. How do I de-crazy this situation?"

"First of all," Scott says, pointing at him with a spoon, "you gotta call Derek. This is not an overreaction that can be fixed by nonescalation."

"I can't _call_ him," whines Stiles to the trivia on the inside of his bottlecap. "No, don't—don't make the _face_. I'm not even _looking_ at you, I can _taste_ it."

"You already call him, like, every night," Scott points out. "Even if you saw each other that _day_."

"God, I do, don't I. That's so gross."

"Yeah, so call him. Hey." Stiles looks up, meekly. "And tell him." There is silence, aside from Scott's upstairs neighbor dropping something and then swearing colorfully. Scott begins a gesture, like he's about to drop huge news. He adds: "About feelings."

Stiles considers this. The anxiety is settling around him like sand in water.

"You're my best friend," Scott assures him. "Whatever happens, I'm here for you."

He's _kind of_ the best. "If he dumps me," Stiles says, "I'm gonna date you."

"I don't wanna be your _rebound_ ," Scott yells, and hits Stiles with a throw pillow.

::

Derek answers his phone with some trepidation.

It isn't that he's only had bad experiences dating people; it's more like he's never had a good one. What goes up must come down, and frankly, he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since Valentine's Day. He dries his hands off on a hand towel, holds the phone gingerly, and takes a deep breath. "He—"

"So I'm kind of a mess sometimes," Stiles interrupts.

Derek considers this.

"Scott says I should use my words."

"You told _Scott_ ," says Derek, and then winces. Stiles and Scott are a package deal, apparently, but Derek doesn't need Scott to have even more cause to hate him.

"Scott can usually knock some sense into me," Stiles says awkwardly, "when I'm having a panic attack for no reason. Say it again."

Derek squints into the sink, which is full of suds and a couple pans. "You… told Scott?"

"N—" Stiles laughs, muffled, like he's putting a hand over the receiver. Derek gets a weird feeling in his chest, cool and creamy like relief, to contrast with the warmth of Stiles' voice. "No. The _thing_ , the thing you said, before I wigged out."

"I don't even remember," Derek lies.

"Don't you? God," Stiles' voice quiets like he's pulled the phone down from his face, "that makes it even worse somehow."

"It was—" Derek looks around his kitchen. "It was something about—" He knows damn well what he said, but you can't back out of a lie now. Unless you can. "I lied. I remember it."

Stiles groans. "This does not bode well for—I don't care, tell me it. Say it."

"Uh, it's been—" Derek tries to remember the exact words. "Eight months," he says. "It's a long time… to be dating."

"Yes… Yes, it is," Stiles replies, rehearsed. "That is true."

Derek looks down at the foamy bubbles in the sink. "All right."

"Yeah."

"Is that all—"

"Um, it's… Yes. It's a long time."

"That—okay…"

"I love you," Stiles blurts out. "Um, _wow_ , _that_ —happened. Sorry, I—um, I love you, and I like you, and if—um, if you're tired of dating me…" Derek squints, perplexed. Then it all slides into place. "Then that's, uh, we should talk about it—"

"Right," says Derek. "Okay. I can see why you'd think that."

"Uh—"

"Seeing as I make it a practice to make sandwiches for people I'm tired of being with."

"Well—"

"It's something I routinely do."

"Okay," says Stiles belligerently. "Thanks for rubbing it in, asshole."

"I'm renowned for it—"

"All right! You have sufficiently mocked me!" Stiles is laughing. "I have been thoroughly mocked! Thank you! Wow!"

"I never," Derek says, and then stops. He has to take a second to grip the edge of the sink. "I never get tired of having you around," he tells Stiles. "My sisters hate you."

"I _know_ ," gushes Stiles. "What did I _do_?"

"You had a personality," replies Derek. "Listen."

"M'listening."

"Stiles…" Derek can hear Stiles take in a shaky breath. "Move in with me," he says. He can't hear Stiles breathing anymore. "That's—" Derek inhales. "That's what I want."

Stiles is quiet for a very long minute. Long enough that Derek thinks he should start panicking. Inexplicably, the panic never comes. He just waits, listening to the quiet white noise of the bubbles in the sink. Finally, Stiles says, "Like, find a new place? Or consolidate into one of ours?"

"Whichever," replies Derek.

"Can we—" Stiles pauses. "Can we throw out my bed and use yours?"

Derek feels something rise up in his chest, like dish soap bubbles, but warmer. Stiles is going to throw out his bed for Derek. "It's true that my bed is better than yours," he agrees.

"Yeah." There's a loud, hard clatter, followed by a scraping noise. "I dropped my phone," Stiles says next. "I'll—can I come over?"

Derek looks back at the suds. "Yes."

"I'll be over in te—" Another clatter, and a swear.

::

"Yeah, but it had skylights," Stiles is enthusing when Derek ushers him, flushed, back out of the cold and into the apartment. " _Skylights_ , dude! We could see the _light_ from the _sky_!"

"You didn't put skylights on the list," Derek tells him. "We finalized this list three times."

"Fourth time's the charm." Stiles points firmly at the paper. "Skylights."

Derek rolls his eyes. On their journey in the roll, his eyes catch a glimpse of Laura, lurking irritably in the kitchen. "Apartment hunting again?" she asks.

Derek looks at Stiles, who nods at her. "Sorry for stealing your brother," he tells her.

Her eyebrows twitch, considering. She looks down at the sour cream she's spooning generously into a pot. Finally, she looks back up. "I'm making stroganoff," she announces. "It's almost done. Eat some."

The stroganoff ends up being nothing like any kind of stroganoff Stiles has ever had; and, as he explains to Derek that night, sleepy and naked in Derek's bed, he has had a _lot_ of stroganoff in his life, "because of Grandma." All the same, he loves it, and Derek watches him decide to embark on a new mission to get the recipe from Laura. Good luck with that one.


End file.
